


he takes my hand and doesn’t let go

by todareistodo



Series: have we met before? [3]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 01:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17539850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: dele will never get over the pain of injury but eric makes it that little bit easier





	he takes my hand and doesn’t let go

**Author's Note:**

> somewhat redundant considering now eric needs His hurt/comfort fic so i’m posting this before more disasters hit tottenham 
> 
> set after the fulham game
> 
> title from ammi ammi by archy marshall

You let yourself sob, feel the fabric of his kit grow wetter and wetter from your tears, choking on it and gulping round every wracking cry. Eric just lets you, strokes through your hair and plaits a stray long strand, rubs his palm up and down your arm methodically, routinely, a safety you can feel, fall into the rhythm of and breathe. He hushes you gently, a tiny _shhh_ punctuated by light pecks to your sweaty forehead. Everything aches, and your head hurts, your heart slamming into your rib cage so hard you can feel it in your eardrums. Overwhelmed, overtaken, hurt.

 

“It’s not the end of the world, Del.”

 

Your sobs have quietened, heavy breathing softening the edges of your tears now but you can’t take away the hand clawed in the material of his kit, can’t move your head from its position against his chest. The steady rise and fall is lulling so you concentrate, think about everything it promises, breathe in his scent and think about everything it means. The familiar washing powder you recognise better than any other, masked by sweat and grass, his wrists still fresh with his smooth aftershave as he strokes the back of his hand against your cheekbone gently.

 

He makes a routine; runs his fingers gently along your cheeks before reaching the little curls by your ears, playing with them gently and smoothing them away before stroking his hand back down, still kissing your forehead gently the whole time, still shushing you near absentmindedly. He’s rested against the top of your head, the scratch of his beard a welcome distraction you can focus on like every other part of him; the coarse hair against your forehead, his steady breathing, his familiar smell, his voice quietly soothing and vibrating inside you where he speaks against your skin.

 

“I know.”

 

It’s strangled, and weak, no real conviction in it but he rewards you with a squeeze around your waist for your bravery and it takes all your strength not to break into renewed sobs at the feel. He’s hugging you so softly, arm wrapped around your middle to keep you half on his lap, other hand holding your head close to him, keeping you safe from everything, even when the damage is done. The elastic strain piercing your thigh is overpowered by how exhausted you are, drained, terrified that this is all there is, this is how it will be. Crying in Eric’s arms as he lulls you back to shore, to land, everything you trust.

 

“This is okay, Delboy.”

 

You smile round a fresh wave of tears at the nickname, lips upturning ever so slightly against the damp material of his kit, sat as you are in a crumbled heap in your hallway. Tears came before you could run, hand tugging him away from the dressing room, home. He’d scolded you for moving so fast on your injured leg, grip on you to lessen the tension on it, helped you hobble along and that _hurt_. It hurt being treated like that, _having_ to be treated like that. You’re so frustrated you want to scream, screech as loud as your lungs allow, until they puncture, punch or bite something until it bleeds or you do.

 

“Dele, love, hang on.”

 

He wraps solid fingers around your shaking ones, pulling them away from where they’re crushing his hand to hold them gently in his palm, stroke each one one after the other, playing with them mindlessly and it pulls you back in, another routine you can focus on, put all your attention in. You concentrate on the feel of his skin against yours, the lightness of his touch, the way his breath flutters on a laugh when your fingers twitch manically at the treatment.

 

“It’s not fair, Eric.” It’s a whisper, barely a whine although you wish you had the energy to throw a tantrum.

 

He coos gently, kissing your temple again, “I know, Del.”

 

You’ll never forget to appreciate how honest Eric is; he doesn’t sugarcoat what you both know, understanding instead, quietly, and making sure you know that he does. Your cheeks are tight with the film of dried tears, mouth hot and salty with them, but the lump in your throat is unknotting slowly and it’s easier to relax into Eric, let the jagged edges of your body held for protection bleed out slowly, smooth so you’re limp against him. He’s humming in your ear now, one of his little Portuguese songs he uses to remind him of home, and show you how much love is in his heart. You try to hum along, both of you snorting as you mutter gibberish in lieu of the lyrics.

 

“C’mon.” He mutters quietly, pulling you up carefully.

 

“We can do whatever I want tonight.” You tell him, voice still thick with tears.

 

Eric nods, rolls his eyes fondly, smile to match, “Of course, your highness.”

 

You wrap yourself in the duvet, pulled up to your eyes so your lashes brush against it every time you blink against the tears that threaten to begin again. Your bedroom is dark and shadowed, blinds open because they’re never closed. You can hear Eric talking to the dogs, the clink of ceramic against each other and the boil of the kettle. Your leg twinges just barely, reminding you like a loose tooth, but you grit your teeth, clench your fists and listen to the sound of home.

 

You realise belatedly you never properly congratulated Harry, too busy pulling Eric away from the celebrations fighting back tears to give him the praise he deserved. You text him an over-the-top, gushing message you know will make him laugh and blush. The little bubble of pride at remembering you won, you and Harry scored, distracts you just enough.

 

Eric leaves a cup of tea on your bedside table, pushing away the framed photo to make room and tutting at the ever-growing collection of rubbish. You giggle sheepishly and tell him to piss off, squeaking when he flicks your temple and crawls into bed beside you, burrowing under the covers to pull you flush against him, warm and safe.

 

He puts on the telly, flicking through the channels trying to find something you’ll like and settling on a shit reality programme, laughing throatily when you turn to look up at him in disgust. His hand is stroking along your thigh under the cover, massaging just barely and it’s okay, for now, that the muscles burn, never letting you forget.

 

“Put on Four Lions,” You say into the duvet, “Makes me laugh.”

 

He nods, settling in behind you at the title screen, little gruff laughs loud in your ear, thumbs drifting along your cheeks to clear them every time you cry a little. He kisses your ear when you do, hushes you like before and pulls you closer into himself, determined to keep you with him, where he can look after you.

 

“You’re a cheese puff, Dier.” You choke through a sob and you mean _I_ _love_ _you_.

 

“Don’t know why I bother!” He teases back and means _I_ _love_ _you_ _too._

 

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for essentially 1000 words of dele crying his eyes out


End file.
